I live with my wife and new pup in the rural northern California community
of Ukiah ("haiku" spelled backwards). I've been writing poems since the
second grade and though now retired, I'm still writing. I was selected as
Ukiah's first Poet Laureate and have published three books of poetry. The
latest is In the Name of Wonder (Haley's Press). For more information,
please visit my website: www.armandbrint.com.

Basho Shows Up at the PondThe old pond— a frog jumps in,the sound of water. -Basho (trans. by Robert Hass)

A fisherman catches an enormous bull frogon mill creek pond.The boy next to him, his son maybe,holds it out for us to see.The frog’s legs spread out as if it might propel itself through the blue summer air.It does not seem especially panicked— perhaps it knows how the old haiku will end.Nancy asks to hold the dangling frog.We don’t ask her to kiss it,as we’re all too old to believe in fairytales.But we do believe in the spirit of Basho. Even the fisherman seems uncomfortablekeeping the frog from its old pond.In fact, he might be counting out haiku syllables as the placid frog looks outover the green water.Except for a few ripples, everything is still.The boy waits for the tangible world of summer to come back to him.We balance on the banks of a Japanese wood block waiting for Basho to give us the signal.And when he does,my friend releases the froginto the old pond.Basho places a finger to his lipsfor quiet,and then we hear the sound of waterwhere the frog jumps in.

Brush Street Hawk

Every time I drive down Brush Street,the same small hawksits at its station on the telephone wireoverlooking the abandoned lot next to the Catholic Church built on the bones of an old garage.The hawk gazes out over its domainseemingly oblivious to the nearby freewayand the general povertyon this side of the railroad tracks.It is completely focused on small movements in the adjacent patch of weeds and yarrow.The hawk doesn’t move a featherwhile it gathers all its energy for the pursuit that will go unnoticed by drivers on their way to the JC Penney.But I always look for the hawk— a symbol of constancy in the midst of boarded store frontsand abandoned shopping carts.And each time I see this small raptormy heart rises a bit in the cage of my chest.It is rare to witness something undeniably wildin a place where even the gnarled oaks amid the self-storage unitslook as if they’ve given up.I know the hawk could be gone in a flicker.And that would leave Brush Street even poorer than before.The telephone line would be freeto lacerate the sky. And there would be no placefor this motorist’s eye to rest.But for now, the hawk sits on its wirecharging the air with its vigilance.And that is almost enough to redeem what’s been done.